Lost and Found
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: After Sherlock's return, he and John have become a couple, giving them a whole new angle to face their trials and tribulations from. To John's surprise, Sherlock takes being a boyfriend unexpectedly serious, which is how they end up travelling a few days before Christmas...


This story was written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2014 at the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum.

My prompt was:

_**Johnlock, a case abroad (?), a bit of humour, a little bit of christmas **_

Deal breakers:

_**Returns of Moriarty + Irene Adler, Teenlock, John and Sherlock in other pairings**_

The recipient would generally like to read about_**:**_

_**Cases, Johnlock, angst + comfort, participation of, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly, humour**_

* * *

**Summary:** After Sherlock's return, he and John have become a couple, giving them a whole new angle to face their trials and tribulations from. To John's surprise, Sherlock takes being a boyfriend unexpectedly serious, which is how they end up travelling a few days before Christmas...

* * *

**Lost and Found**

Sherlock was incapable of moving. He opened his mouth to speak, but every sound was choked, nothing could be heard. And why make an effort at all, when it was pointless anyway? Still, he tried. The darkness around him was threatening; no night should be so black, so void of stars. Somehow, he knew that this was a cave, or worse: the underworld, a place which might be described as hell. A place where monsters dwelt, monsters of human nature. People whose nature was less than human, to be more precise, who delighted in hurting and killing others. Now that he had been hunting them, he knew they existed. Before that, they were abstract ideas, fairytales, myths, nothing he wasn't able to deal with.

He could feel the the skin of his neck prickle as pure, unadultered terror spread through him; he knew he was being watched, and he still couldn't move a muscle when all he wanted was to get away.

"...rlock."

He was struggling so hard to escape that he only slowly became aware of the voice.

"Sherlock."

He stilled; the voice wasn't threatening. He listened, realized there was touch as well. Two hands which were framing his face, thumbs gently stroking his skin.

"Sherlock. Are you awake now?"

He managed to blink his eyes open, found himself face to face with John. A beacon of kindness and safety in all the darkness. But no, the latter had been a dream. The bedroom was not entirely dark, as the lamp on the nightstand was lit; it was immensely comforting, and he hated it because he hated being afraid of the dark.

"You okay?" John's voice was concerned, soft, affectionate.

"Fine," Sherlock croaked, though he could still feel the terror, which was only abating slowly.

"Another nightmare," John said; a statement rather than a question.

Sherlock had been home for less than four months; it was going to take some time until he had left everything that had been behind.

John's touch made him aware that he was drenched in cold sweat. Slowly, he sat up and pulled his soaked shirt over his head, wondering whether he would ever again be able to sleep without any lights on.

He disentangled himself from the covers, threw the shirt into the laundry hamper and went into the bathroom to wash, since his skin felt uncomfortably clammy. He paused as he met his own gaze in the mirror above the sink: he looked paler than usual, and the dark smudges underneath his eyes were more pronounced. He had not expected it to haunt him so severely, but haunt him it did.

_Forever in the trenches_, he thought bitterly. He hated the notion that this was victimizing him; he had made mistakes and had paid for them, which was all there was to it in his opinion. The trouble was that his subconscious disagreed, which was also the reason why he had not been able to delete what had happened to him during his captivity. It was not only that, though. The underworld in other places was different to the one in London. There were other rules, other scales, brutality of a kind that was hard to grasp. He would not have considered himself as naive or unfamiliar with violence before his faked death, but it had opened his eyes nevertheless.

He blinked; he needed to remind himself that he was home now, did not have to go back. He was lucky, contrary to many others. And yet, he was still trembling all over.

* * *

Sherlock was fumbling with the taps when John came in, quietly, as was his wont. He took Sherlock's hands in his and gently turned him around so they faced each other. His expression was affectionate as he eyed the detective now, his mere presence soothing.

"How about a bath?" he asked softly.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Why not? We're both wide awake now, and Mrs Hudson probably won't hear the water running. Low frequencies, you know."

The idea was rather appealing, Sherlock had to admit, so he nodded his consent.

John squeezed his hands, feeling the other's distress as distinctly as if it were his own. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he looked at John now, and slightly bloodshot. He seemed exhausted and weary, something John remembered well: constantly having nightmares made oneself question one's sanity at one point. He clearly recalled how it felt to be worn out and hollow from the frequent terrors he had been reliving, how he had been unable to stop it. He had felt silly, as though he was blowing matters out of proportion, had sometimes even been ashamed of his inability to cope, even though there had been absolutely no reason to be. He hated the fact that Sherlock was going through the same thing, was equally helpless.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were lying in the tub together, Sherlock leaning back against John, who was gently kneading his partner's shoulders. Gradually, the detective relaxed, easing into John's ministrations; John could tell from the way Sherlock's head slowly became heavier. John loved these quiet moments together, despite the reason for this particular one; Sherlock was pliable and uncomplicated when they were this close.

When the water began to cool, John bent forward and tenderly pressed his cheek against Sherlock's: "Are you still with me?" he whispered, eliciting a soft, drowsy hum from the other. The bath had had the desired effect on Sherlock, John noticed with satisfaction, and had calmed him down as intended.

With slightly clumsy movements, they scrambled to their feet and out of the tub, quickly drying themselves off and slipping back into their nightclothes.

"Sometimes I'm running," Sherlock murmured abruptly once they had settled under the covers of his bed, arms wound around each other. His breath was damp and warm again John's neck, but the doctor didn't mind. He was glad that Sherlock had recovered enough to talk about it, which he didn't do often.

Bit by bit, he was painting a picture for John about the things that happened, filling out the blank spaces on the map. It wasn't always easy to listen to, but John wanted to know. Needed to know, in fact, in order to process everything his partner had gone through. It was also a part of understanding the ways in which Sherlock had changed since his return.

John still wasn't sure whether the detective would have admitted his feelings so openly two and a half years ago. Of course, John always suspected that Sherlock cared deeply for him, but he wouldn't have anticipated, wouldn't even have dreamed of hoping that they'd ever have something else than a platonic relationship. But then Sherlock had died (or so John thought), and he had had to live with more than two years of reproaching himself for never even trying to talk to his friend about the true nature of their mutual affection. He had let himself be discouraged by that one evening at Angelo's, way back at their beginning. Sherlock had been so convincing that night, and yet- in the months which followed, he and John had surprisingly quickly grown close. In hindsight, John realized that he had felt nothing but short of being loved and cherished, even if Sherlock had a peculiar way of showing it.

How blind he had been, John thought painedly back then, how utterly ignorant. It also made him feel guilty: he should have noticed something was wrong, shouldn't he? The one person in the world who really mattered shouldn't have been able to commit suicide out of the blue. He should have seen it coming.

After Sherlock's return in late summer, John found that he actually had no idea how to even start talking about the matter. But Sherlock was different, something John realized rather quickly once his anger and disappointment had been dealt with. It seemed that he hadn't been the only one who had had time to think. Thus it was Sherlock, astonishingly, surprisingly, who had made the first move.

Well. It hadn't exactly been a move; he had just been himself, the way he was back then during the first few weeks into his second life. He had begun an argument which had led to shouting, but instead of storming out, Sherlock had turned away from John and hung his head, knowing full well how the doctor couldn't bear seeing him hurt. Especially not then. John distinctly remembered how vulnerable Sherlock's neck had looked, how he had wrapped his arms around himself defensively.

One thing had led to another, and here they were, two weeks before Christmas, _cuddling_. It had become something so normal that John sometimes woke up and for a second didn't know whether it was actually true and happening. It told him how much everything had changed, but also that he hadn't known nearly enough about Sherlock before their lives had been interrupted.

* * *

"Sometimes I can't move at all," Sherlock now continued, voice very low, "even though someone's behind me. I can feel their eyes on my skin." He fell silent. John gently caressed the still damp hair on his partner's neck: "It'll pass," he said quietly. "Eventually."

This was one of the things Sherlock most appreciated about John: he didn't lie in order to euphemise things, didn't promise solutions which were impossible to obtain.

Tiredly, Sherlock closed his eyes. He was almost certain he was going to be able to sleep without interruption this time; he always did when John was taking care of him. Before John, he probably hadn't needed this, someone's arms around him in a comfortingly solid embrace, someone's familiar scent in his nose, calming in a way that was nearly incomprehensible, someone's heartbeat drumming out a steady rhythm for him to listen to, to feel underneath his fingers.

John however had taught him that it was nothing out of the ordinary to crave bodily comfort, that he needn't be ashamed or regard it as a weakness if he allowed someone else to be strong for him. It turned out to be a mutual thing, after all, since there were times when John required comfort or consolation, and Sherlock found that it was surprisingly satisfying to be just what the other person needed. It was rather spectacular that it didn't even need words on certain occasions. He was beginning to understand the more intricate workings of being in a relationship, and as much as it intimidated him, he realized that he was not willing to give it up again.

"Good night," he murmured, pressing a kiss on John's throat.

"Night, love," the doctor replied softly, gently running his thumb over Sherlock's neck a few more times before succumbing to his tiredness as well.

* * *

"Have you decided what you're doing on Christmas, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked John two days later. She was planning on visiting her sister in Northumbria, who for a change was not going on a cruise during the holidays.

"Not yet," John replied, pouring hot water into the teapot. "Sherlock muttered something about hiding in the wardrobe in case Mycroft should come by, but apart from that- frankly, I'd be happy with a good book, lots of food and some decent wine." As long as Sherlock was there with him.

"I see what you mean," Mrs Hudson was contemplative, "after all the trouble."

John sat down at the table with her: "It's so much better than last year, of course," he said, and for a moment, they were silent. Christmas and Sherlock's birthday were the hardest to bear while he was gone, and John still didn't know how he survived at all.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on that now. He'd just come home from work; Sherlock had left a note on the kitchen table, informing him that he was with Lestrade. John was trying not to worry on those occasions. His more rational part kept telling him it was fine and he should be glad that Sherlock was able to resume his old life, more or less, now that his name had been cleared and Moriarty was out of the way. And yet- he couldn't _not _worry. Now that he knew how it felt to lose Sherlock, he simply didn't know how to stop.

"What is it, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, reading his expression easily.

John shrugged, smiling sheepishly:"It's just me being silly," he sighed. "Whenever Sherlock's out on a case without me, I'm... a bit nervous."

"How could you not?" Mrs Hudson looked at him with unconcealed sympathy. "With everything that happened?"

"Yeah. I know." John stirred his tea. "He's changed, of course," he then said. "I sometimes catch him unawares when he's been on his own, you know, pondering, and he doesn't so easily fob me off anymore. He's begun to tell me things, and I'm... yeah, I'm happy about that."

"But?" He should have known. Mrs Hudson often was much more perceptive than they gave her credit for.

"He seems more vulnerable that way. I don't want people to take advantage of that." He rather liked it when Sherlock appeared unassailable, even if he often was considered rude and arrogant. Somehow, it had seemed safer. John didn't know where these thoughts were coming from; it didn't occur to him that deep down, he was still trying to comprehend what had happened to Sherlock during his time away.

A small smile was playing around Mrs Hudson's mouth. "Maybe to you, the changes you're seeing in him are more prominent," she suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"You and Sherlock have become closer than ever," she said, still smiling, "therefore, you're seeing him with slightly different eyes now. His susceptibilities are becoming more and more apparent to you the better you're getting to know him. Maybe he's still the same old Sherlock in the presence of others. Me excluded, of course."

John thought of Sherlock after a nightmare, wide-eyed and trembling and not at all resembling his usual self-confident self. The way he sought John's proximity when they were alone nowadays.

Unaware that he was smiling affectionately at the thought, he nodded: "You're probably right, yes."

Mrs Hudson inclined her head: "I've always been convinced that watching daytime TV is educational," she quipped.

"Oh now, don't go and ruin the moment," John countered.

Mrs Hudson regarded him fondly: "He's much stronger than he appears," she said quietly. "Always has been."

Sometimes, John was a little jealous when he remembered how much longer she had known Sherlock than him. But she's right again: not many people would have been able to do what he did and come back in one piece; it took someone remarkable to do so, someone who wasn't only smart but also rather hardy.

Who knew Sherlock had it in him; he was made of sterner stuff than the doctor would have anticipated.

"He's amazing," John muttered.

Mrs Hudson, who was beaming at him because according to her, she had known right away that her two tenants were destined for each other and who had been over the moon when they had finally become a couple, was just about to answer when they heard the door downstairs and someone coming up, and moments later, Sherlock came in, windswept and exhilarated.

"And what are you all happy about?" John asked while the detective pulled off his gloves without even stopping.

"A case," Sherlock replied, whirling around the table to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek.

"Oooh, you're cold," she laughed.

"Started to snow. Pack your bags, John, we're going to Scotland."

"What, now?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"But- it's Christmas in a few days."

"Wrong." Sherlock was glowing with excitement; John hadn't seen him like this in a long time. "It's Christmas _now_, because we've got a case, a brilliant one at that, and we can't afford to wait."

"We can't? What about my job?"

"We'll phone them and tell them you've got the flu."

"Sherlock-"

"The flight leaves from Heathrow at 7:10."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll fill you in once we're on our way."

"Sherlock."

"Yes. John."

"I can't go to Scotland tomorrow morning. I have to go to work, I can't just pretend I'm ill. It's not how you treat your colleagues."

"But the case!"

"But my_ job_."

"I've already booked the tickets."

"Too bad." John folded his arms in front of his chest and smiled: "I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule."

Mrs Hudson, whose tea had nearly run cold by now, grinned into her cup.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not an accomplished manipulator. He also was a good actor. Neither of those traits had suffered during his time away, and he was glad about that for multiple reasons. The most important of them was that he needed to feel like himself again, which was so much easier during the days than during the nights. At night, he was at the mercy of his subconscious, and much to his chagrin, he had never been successful in mastering the art of lucid dreaming.

During the days, he was Sherlock Holmes, not dead, famous, easily recognizable. He had worked on a few cases once he and John had sorted things out, but it had taken him some time to slip back into routine. John had tried to help him with that, had sometimes taken time off work in order to be with him. Sherlock suspected that maybe his reasons weren't entirely unselfish: his eyes had been gleaming with pride whenever he watched his partner as he worked; he had missed this as well, after all, as he had told the detective rather early on.

Gradually, Sherlock had reacquainted himself with London and its miscreants. The first time he had solved a case for Lestrade, he had been giddy with satisfaction, for the first time feeling at home outside of 221B again.

Rather early in December, he had eavesdropped on a conversation while pretending to be napping on the sofa. John had gotten a call from his sister, and even though he could hear only half of what was being said and John was talking in the kitchen, Sherlock strained his ears to listen.

They obviously were arguing about Christmas, and judging from John's tone, he was already having trouble to stay calm.

"... give a shit about how I was doing, even though you knew what was going on. And now you suddenly want to play happy family?" ... "No, Harry, that's not how it works." ... "Oh, absolutely, it does sound good, especially if there's snow. But I'm staying at home, with Sherlock."... "And that's where you're wrong, Harry. He is. We-" ... "No, _you_ listen! Just because I don't mention them doesn't mean I don't miss them! But they're not coming back, and I still managed while Sherlock was gone. Yes, I was lonely, and I was hurt, but that's in the past, and I don't need you to tell me how I should live my life now that we're together!" ...

"Actually- we will. It'll be him and me, and maybe Mrs Hudson, and we'll have a good time, because we care about each other."

John sounded tired now. "I know you don't. Here's a twist: I love him, that's all that counts. And now that I've got him back, I'm really looking forward to Christmas for once, which didn't happen very often in the past few years. I don't care about the weather, I don't even care if he'll give me a present, as long as we're together and there's a goddamn tree."

Sherlock lay on the sofa with his heart pounding and his mind reeling and only just in time remembered that he was supposedly asleep when John came in, audibly irritated. He walked over to the window and back to the kitchen a few times, huffing under his breath, before his footsteps approached the sofa, and then he seemed to have sat down on the coffee table.

Sherlock, who was on his side facing the backrest, listened to John's breathing slowly calming down; being watched like this was so very different from his nightmares, since John's affection was almost palpable. After a while, it was getting a tad boring though, therefore Sherlock was glad when he eventually heard John taking a deep breath: "Look at you," he muttered, obviously rather lost in thought, "I love you so much." He fell silent, and Sherlock had difficulties not to give himself away at that point. John however wasn't done yet: "I'm such a lucky bastard," he added, and now there was a smile in his voice.

A moment later, Sherlock felt a tentative hand on his head as John caressed him, gently running his fingers through the soft curls. Sherlock took the opportunity to "wake up", since the moment was convenient. He turned around to John, blinking, and smiled at him, and the doctor smiled back: "Hey there. Mind if I join you?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock shifted closer to the backrest in a silent invitation and turned on his left side, and John stretched out next to and pressed against him, nosing against Sherlock's neck and taking in his scent. Immediately, he felt how it was soothing his frayed nerves. It was marvellous and immensely comforting to feel Sherlock's body against his own, his strong, steady heartbeat, his arm around his midriff.

"What's bothering you?" Sherlock asked, voice very soft.

"Harry," John breathed. "She wanted me to spend Christmas with her."

"That's not so bad, is it?"

"Considering that she didn't even call last year, when I- when things were off, I'd say it's not very good either."

"Hm."

"I want to spend the holidays with you," John murmured, "and no one else."

Sherlock smiled against the doctor's hair: "Don't tell Mrs Hudson."

"With you and Mrs H., and no one else," John corrected himself, unable to subdue a grin.

He then sighed: "There were plenty of times that I wished Harry and I were close. It'd be nice not to be alone in the world, apart from a few cousins whom I'm barely speaking with either."

"You aren't alone in the world. You've got me." The pressure of Sherlock's hand between John's shoulderblades increased as he possessively reinforced his hold around the doctor.

"That's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me," John smiled at him. Up close like this, he could see the strange multitude of colours in Sherlock's eyes.

"Just stating a fact," Sherlock replied, but somewhere in his voice, there was a smile as well. "We're together, aren't we?" His gaze was full of warmth as he regarded his partner. A pleasant shudder ran down John's spine. How did he get to be so happy?

He hummed in agreement and nuzzled his face against Sherlock's. Wrapped around each other, both of them dozed off this time.

* * *

Sherlock however didn't forget what he had heard before. Christmas had not particularly interested him ever since he had grown up, but now he was reconsidering. After two years of darkness, two years during which he wasn't always so sure whether he'd be able to return home at all, the idea of a few fairy lights and a goddamn tree seemed feasible. Especially with John, especially since this time, there wasn't going to be another of those obnoxious girlfriends whose names he could never remember. It'd be only them and probably Mrs Hudson; he doubted that Mycroft was going to interfere.

The other reason was one he didn't like to dwell on, but it had left its mark on his conscience like a burn: guilt. He had knowingly put John through hell, and even though it had been difficult to watch and to know, he had had to go through with it. And even though he had been aware of the pain he was causing, he had been distraught when, after his return, he learned how badly John had actually suffered. Sherlock felt he had been stupid and blind, and on some days, he didn't think he deserved such a loyal and forgiving partner. He wasn't done making it up to John for a long time yet.

* * *

Two weeks before Christmas, Mrs Hudson announced that she was going to spend the holidays with her sister, which was rather unexpected.

"Well," John said that evening, "_I'll_ cook something festive for us, then."

"Hmm," Sherlock, who was reading, pretended to be engrossed in his book. It was easy to fool John in that regard. He had also bought presents already, something John mustn't know.

"And we need a tree," he doctor then said, "otherwise it's not really Christmas."

"Hmm."

"And we're going to switch off our phones for the entire time."

"Hmm."

"He's really not listening," John muttered to himself, and then, fondly: "Idiot."

"Hmm."

Chuckling, John went into the kitchen.

* * *

"Remind me why I'm doing this?" a rather groggy doctor murmured as he fell onto the seat of a cab one early morning just three days before Christmas. It was bitterly cold, and a fine layer of snow was still covering most surfaces. He squinted:"Shouldn't we take the tube? Piccadilly Line'd take us straight to the terminal." He rubbed his eyes. "God, I'm tired."

"Too early, lights are too bright, too many obnoxious people," Sherlock replied curtly. He leaned over to John for a second: "And you're doing it for me," he nearly whispered, the deep baritone sending shivers down John's spine. "Because you think I'm lovely."

John smiled, his belly full of warmth: "Ever snogged in an airplane toilet?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, but he wasn't able to hide the amusement which was briefly visible on his face.

Of course, he equally hadn't been able to contain himself until the morning. After the work problem had been solved rather bluntly by Sherlock calling his brother to take care of the situation ("I'm not a wizard, Sherlock," Mycroft had said, exasperatedly, "how do you expect me to sort matters out so quickly?" "Easy. Have one of your minions find someone who's jobless and slash or desperate for some extra money." John, who'd been able to listen because Sherlock had put the call on speakerphone, had only shaken his head. Hopefully, his colleagues were going to believe him if he claimed _family emergency_ once he was back), John had packed a bag and went to bed while Sherlock sat down and did some research. John fell asleep listening to the monotonous rattling of their printer.

Some time later, he'd been woken again by his partner, who had been bouncing with energy when he finally went to bed: "It's getting better and better," he announced, "you're going to love this."

Groaning, John had pulled the duvet over his head and turned away. This was the old Sherlock, the one who often was oblivious to social norms and other people's needs. He crawled under the duvet and tucked his cold feet underneath John's warm ones, which had the doctor squealing rather undignified. He then turned around and seized Sherlock by his nightshirt: "If you don't let me sleep now, I'll push you into the first Loch we'll come across."

"That'd be Loch Lomond," Sherlock replied (unwisely). Harrumphing, John pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him and held him in a vice-like grip. "We'll sleep. Now." he growled.

"You're suffocating me," Sherlock complained, his voice muffled.

"I won't. Good night."

"John."

"Sleep."

"John."

"No."

"John!"

"What?"

"I love you."

"Shut up." But it had sounded much less grumpy than before.

* * *

On the way to the airport, Sherlock read through his printouts while John had closed his eyes and was dozing. By the time they had reached the terminal, it had begun to snow again.

With a sigh because he was rather unwilling to fully wake up and step out into the cold morning air, John rubbed his eyes before taking his bag and following Sherlock, who had already paid their fare.

Five minutes later, he was squinting up at the large departure board: "I don't understand. It says terminal five. Why do you want to go to terminal two?"

Sherlock was beaming at him: "Because we're not going to Scotland, we're going to Sweden!"

John stared at him, wishing he'd had more sleep: "Huh?"

Sherlock seemed oblivious to his partner's confusion: "Yep. Look, it says: Stockholm, terminal two. Flight leaves at 7:45."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Why are we going to Sweden,and why did you tell me we were going to Scotland instead?"

"I thought you might not want to go if it's so far away. Of course, the flight time's not much longer, but sometimes you_ are_ difficult like that."

John felt anger welling up in him. "You're bloody unbelievable," he said belligerently, "I should turn around right now and go home."

Sherlock tried to look contrite: "You'll miss all the fun."

"Oh, really? Tell me, Sherlock- is there a case at all, or were you making it up for some bizarre reason?"

"There _is_ a case," Sherlock replied, somewhat miffed. "And I need you to help me solve it."

John snorted, not saying anything.

"Please," Sherlock said, in a lower voice. "John."

"You could have been honest," John huffed. "I thought we had arrived at that stage by now."

Sherlock, who knew what he was referring to, felt a rather unpleasant rush of adrenaline. He had learned one thing or two about being in a relationship in the meantime, however: "I'm sorry," he therefore hurried to say. Luckily for him, he had arranged his face accordingly by now so that his expression matched his tone.

John was grumbling, but he seemed to be relenting.

"Fine," he eventually said. "But I'm really curious about how you managed to find a case that's taking us to Sweden."

Relieved, Sherlock inclined his head: "I'll tell you the details on the plane."

* * *

"We're going to a small town called Sigtuna-"

"Is it _supposed_ to be pronounced like 'tuna'?"

"Shut up. It's the oldest town in Sweden, by the way, though that's not important for the case."

"So what_ is_ the case?"

"There's a manor house just outside the town, the owners' family has been living there for ages. They've had a series of mysterious thefts. At first, they thought it was an intruder, but now that the house is surrounded by snow, it happened again and they didn't find any tracks leading to or away from the house."

"Hm." John craned his neck: "That the house?"

Nodding, Sherlock handed him the pictures he had been holding on his lap.

"Looks nice," John muttered, regarding the large building with interest. It was built of wood and painted a light yellow. "Impressive. What's been stolen?"

"Mainly jewellery and expensive but useless knick-knacks."

"And you were interested in the case because?"

"It's like a locked room mystery, John," Sherlock said, "only on a slightly grander scale."

"And how did you get to know about the matter at all?"

"Shhh, I can't hear the announcement."

"Sherlock-"

"Shh!"

John shook his head as he looked from the pictures to the detective again; something was definitely odd.

* * *

They landed in Stockholm-Arlanda at a quarter past eleven. The world outside was white; the snow had obviously gotten a headstart here, piling up to what John estimated was a meter already.

"If you'd told me we were going to Scandinavia, I'd have brought the right clothes," he muttered, eying his boots and Sherlock's shoes, which definitely weren't suitable for this kind of weather. "For both of us."

"We'll manage," Sherlock said airily. "Ah! Rental cars are that way."

"As long we're back home in time," John grumbled as he followed the swish of the dark coat. "I haven't done the shopping yet."

The gently sloping landscape admittedly was enchanting, especially with all the snow and despite a rather overcast sky. The road had recently been cleared, and on each side, there were thin poles sticking out of the snow, marking the edges. Yellow signs were warning them to look out for moose crossing the lanes.

John took in all the wooden houses, many of which had lights in their windows, looking inviting, and suddenly felt Christmas-y. With a huff, he cuffed Sherlock's arm; rather playfully, but the detective still complained: "What was that for?"

"I'm not prepared for this," John said. "Look how lovely it is! I'd have brought my camera!"

"You don't have one."

"Anymore, no, because someone was bored and destroyed it. Still, I'd have borrowed Mrs Hudson's."

"It was an experiment. And you can use the camera on my phone if you like."

"Thanks. The one on mine is rubbish."

"Hm."

The drive didn't take long, since Sigtuna was only about eleven miles from the airport.

"Why did we rent a four by four for this?" John asked. "We could easily have gotten here by public transport."

"I like to drive once in a while," Sherlock replied vaguely and climbed out of the SUV (which happened to be a Volvo, of course).

* * *

The house was situated among trees; the property was rather large judging by the withered old wall made of small boulders. It looked homely and inviting, just as the other houses on the way here had. The front door opened just as Sherlock was about to ring the bell and they found themselves face to face with a tall blond man: "You must be Mr Holmes," he said, speaking nearly accentless. "Välkommen."

His name was Harald Bergqvist, and he invited them in with genuine cordiality. His wife Lillemor was just making coffee, and they sat down in the spacious kitchen. John was fascinated by how different the house was to all the others he had seen so far; it was cosy and tastefully decorated without being too ornate. In one corner of the kitchen there was a large hooded woodstove which obviously was still being used daily, and John had seen a Christmas tree in what he assumed was the living room.

"It's baffling," Lillemor said when Sherlock questioned her about the stolen items, her English as good as her husband's, "we have no idea what might have happened. There's simply no way someone could have gotten in and out unnoticed in this kind of weather."

"Is it only you two who are living here?"

"Well, yes," Harald said, "and my mother." His face took on a pained expression: "She's suffering from dementia. We didn't even tell her about the thefts in order not to upset her."

John saw that his wife quickly squeezed his hand under the table; a silent solace.

"You don't have any servants?"

"No, we don't."

"Hm." Sherlock, who had been studying the list of missing things the Bergqvists had made, looked up: "I'd like to see where the items were taken from," he said.

"Of course." Lillemor got to her feet and led the way.

Harald sought John's gaze: "More coffee?"

"Er, yes, please." He smiled: "Do you always have snow for Christmas?"

"Most years, yes. Sometimes it doesn't get cold enough until January or even February, but that's rare."

"Wow. Must be nice."

"It is. If one likes this kind of weather."

"Not so much for the commuters, then," John quipped.

Harald shrugged: "They're used to it."

"I can imagine." John stirred his coffee: "Do you have a lot of moose around here?"

"Oh yes. Hunting is also very popular. About 100,000 moose are shot in Sweden each year."

"I didn't know that."

"The population has to be kept in the balance," Harald said. "And there's some excellent meat to be had."

"Huh." John looked into his mug. He'd rather see a live moose, though preferably not on the road.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock and John said their goodbyes, promising to be back on the following day.

"So?" John asked as soon as they were out of earshot. "Any theories?"

"I'm pretty sure it was the mother," Sherlock replied, fiddling with his mobile. "Everything that was stolen were heirlooms of some kind."

"And patients suffering from dementia often are under the delusion that people are stealing from them because they frequently misplace things or don't remember where they've left them," John added slowly, putting two and two together as he spoke. "She probably wanted to save the items by hiding them."

"Exactly. I told Mrs Bergqvist to search the old lady's room. She wasn't very happy about it."

John stared at Sherlock: "I'm the doctor, I could have found that out."

"_They _could have found it out if they hadn't been emotionally involved."

"They are taking it hard," John said. "Understandably."

"Yes." Sherlock put his mobile on the dashboard and backed out of the drive.

"Sherlock?" John asked a moment later.

"Hm?"

"Did we really fly all the way to Sweden to solve a case which you'd probably have deemed a three or maybe a four at most if we'd been in England?"

"It sounded more complicated on the phone," Sherlock replied vaguely. "Probably the language barrier."

John stared at him: "Their English was excellent. Why do I get the feeling that there's something you're not telling me?"

"You've always had a rather vivid imagination," Sherlock murmured, glancing at his phone.

"Where are we going anyway?" John wanted to know. "A hotel?"

"No."

"Great, thank you for the info."

"Wait and see," Sherlock said.

They drove through Sigtuna and then headed west. The town was situated by a system of lakes, the nearest of which was visible through the trees once in a while, a large expanse of white; the frozen surface was covered in snow as well. They were on a dirt road now, surrounded by a rather dense forest, and John wondered if Sherlock knew what he was doing. At one point, the lanes seemed to have been cleared; ever so often they saw one or two lonely houses along the way, all of which looked occupied.

After about twenty minutes, Sherlock pulled into what looked like a driveway; they passed an open wooden gate and came to a stop next to a battered old Landrover.

"Nice," John murmured. On the property, there was a small red cottage, and the grounds gently sloped down to the lakeshore. There was a small wooden pier and what seemed to be a boatshed.

"Who's living here?" John asked as he closed the door of the car. Before Sherlock could answer, the door of the cottage opened, and a man appeared, waving a greeting and approaching them. John wondered whether he had anything to do with the Bergqvists; if he did, he hoped they were going to go back inside, since his feet were uncomfortably cold. He really didn't bring the right clothes for this.

* * *

"You look pretty," Greg Lestrade said as he handed Molly Hooper a glass of wine and sat down. She blushed, quickly taking a sip in order to prevent herself from saying something silly.

She couldn't hide her curiosity, though, and she didn't see any point in beating around the bush.

"Why did you want to buy me drink?" she asked once she had set down her wine. "I mean, it's nice," she quickly added, "but... I was surprised."

Lestrade didn't seem offended. "I suppose I just wanted to make sure you're all right," he said. "We didn't talk in a while."

Not that they talked on a regular basis, but Molly thought she knew where this was coming from and what he meant by _a while_.

"You mean, how am I doing now that Sherlock's back?"

Greg smiled good-naturedly: "You got me. I should've tried to be a little more subtle, you're always seeing through me. I could use someone like you on my team. Ever getting bored of your job?"

The only thing Molly was currently bored of was her private life, but she wasn't going to tell Lestrade so. She didn't want to sound like a pathetic old spinster, and besides, he had his own worries, what with the divorce and everything.

"I'm good, thank you," she replied.

Greg didn't say anything, he just drank from his beer and waited for her to continue. He was such a really nice and decent guy, it would have been easy to talk to him. Molly could have told him how she had hoped, against all odds, that Sherlock would return her feelings for him once he was back, and how it had hurt to realize that he didn't. She could have told him about how awkward but also relieving it was for her that John and Sherlock apparently were together now, and how lonely she had felt recently, even more so than before.

She wasn't naive, she realized how large a part hope and repression had played in her pining for the detective, but as it was, it was difficult to fill the sudden void nevertheless. It was a little harder to get up in the mornings nowadays, since she hadn't completely moved on yet. She despised herself for being like that, downtrodden and melancholic because of a man who had never even wanted her.

"Why are you worrying about me?" she asked instead.

Lestrade regarded her wordlessly for a moment, then shrugged: "Dunno. Maybe because it's Christmas and you didn't seem very happy recently."

Molly looked at her glass: "You think I'm pathetic."

"No," Lestrade's patient tone was that of someone who had some experience in dealing with women. "If I thought you were pathetic, I wouldn't bother at all."

Molly couldn't subdue a grin.

"Why," Lestrade continued. "Do _you_ think you're pathetic?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly, to her horror blushing again. "I'm- it's normal to feel lonely around this time of year, isn't it?"

"Tell me about it," Lestrade murmured. "I'm working on Christmas because I couldn't stand the thought of being alone."

"I'm sorry," Molly said feebly. She never knew whether people wanted one to comment on something like that or not.

"No need," Lestrade visibly pulled himself together, sitting up a little straighter. "It'll get easier, I suppose."

"Hopefully," Molly said.

Lestrade contemplated this.

"What are you doing on Christmas, then?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"I'm visiting my mum on Christmas Day. My aunt and uncle from North Yorkshire are staying with her, so I've got an excuse to leave in the evening. A small relief." She smirked.

"Well," Lestrade smiled at her. "Give me a call if you fancy another drink. We can be lonely together."

"That definitely does make it sound pathetic," Molly said, "but I just might."

* * *

John looked at the old-fashioned key in his hand, barely able to listen to the man who had introduced himself as Arvid and who was currently telling them where to find things they might need, what to do if the water pump failed and to mark their way by leaving yellow tape on the trees if they went far into the woods.

"Call me if you need anything else," Arvid said at one point, "Merry Christmas!" Only then did John shake himself out of his stupor: "Yes, er, thank you. And Merry Christmas."

They waved as the Landrover backed out of the drive, and turned towards each other again. There was a small, hesitant smile in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He looked almost timid, as though not sure about John's reaction.

"You rented this house for us?" John asked, to be absolutely clear.

"Yes."

"We're staying here over Christmas?"

"Well, yes."

"Just you and me and all the snow and no more cases?"

"Yes?"

John smiled. "I've got more questions," he said huskily, because he suddenly had a lump in his throat, "but they can wait." He put the key in his pocket and stepped closer to his partner. Slowly, he wound his arms around Sherlock's midriff and pulled the other man against him.

"You arranged all this for me," he said.

"Well, there was the case and we had to stay somewhere-"

"Idiot," John interrupted Sherlock fondly. "Once in a while, you can simply admit that you're a good guy."

Sherlock looked away: "I'm not," he said softly. "But I'm aware that I've got a lot to atone for."

"No," John disagreed, reinforcing his grip around the detective. "You really don't."

Sherlock was blinking now, still unable to meet John's gaze. It was astounding by how his guilt managed to catch him unawares at times.

"Look at me, love," John all but whispered. Reluctantly, Sherlock did so. His eyes were a little red-rimmed now, which John found hard to bear.

"I love you so much," he said, unable to keep his emotions out of his voice. "You have no idea. Even without something like this, you're making me happy. There, I don't even need a special occasion to say it, because it's a fact."

Sherlock sounded nasal: "You're a hopeless romantic," he replied, but his eyes were full of affection.

"Yeah," John said, drily, "I'm so romantic that I'm ignoring my cold and probably by now also wet feet just to be standing in the snow with you."

This made both of them chuckle.

The house was as lovely from the inside as it was from the outside. The bigger half of the main room served as a living room, the smaller half as a kitchen. There was a hooded stove similar to the one at the Bergqvist's which didn't only supply warmth for the room but also served as a cooking stove. Only in the bedroom there was an electric storage heater. The bathroom was tiny, but at least there was one, John thought, grinning to himself, instead of an oldfashioned outhouse and a water bowl.

The whole house was very cosy, and John couldn't believe his luck. "I love it here," he said. "You have no idea how much."

Sherlock, who was perusing the bookshelf even though nearly all of the books were either in Swedish or German, hummed, but didn't turn around. John smiled and went to unpack his bag. Confusion spread on his face when he opened it though, and for a moment, he thought he had grabbed the wrong one from the conveyor belt at the airport. He did recognize the warm cardigan lying on top of the other things however, it definitely was his own, and he definitely hadn't packed it. He took it out and discovered more items he hadn't expected, such as a hat and a thick scarf, woolly socks and his old army long johns.

Now where had Sherlock dug out those? John didn't even know he still had them.

"Sherlock," he called. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

The detective popped his head around the door: "Yes?"

"Did you repack my bag last night?"

Sherlock nodded: "Of course. You didn't take the right things." He had also found the present John had bought for him, and had put it in his own bag. John didn't need to know until Christmas Day.

"No, that's because I looked up how the weather in Scotland was like. It's much warmer there currently, and they don't have any snow yet. If you had told me-"

"I'd have ruined the surprise."

"True. I'm starting to think that the real reason is an entirely different one though. You just love to go through my stuff."

"See? Now you're imagining things again."

Laughing quietly and shaking his head, John walked to the door and pulled Sherlock into the room so he could wrap his arms around him once more, marvelling at how good it felt: "I'm not angry, just..."

"Surprised?"

"No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow: "You said you were."

"About the house and everything, yes. Not about your... methods, though." He recalled how excited Sherlock had been, how he had said "you're going to love this". Now it made much more sense, of course.

"I had to keep it a secret, hadn't I?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, you did. And it seems that you've been planning this for a while."

Sherlock waved his hand evasively: "It's nothing."

"You conjured up a case. You rented a house. You made sure the fridge and the pantry were well-stocked, _yes_, I've noticed. You repacked my bag. Arvid said something about boots in our sizes." John smiled at Sherlock. "Did I forget something?"

Sherlock fidgeted a little: "There's a tree stand in the shed. We can put up a Christmas tree, if we like."

John's smile widened: I love you," he said, pulling Sherlock even closer so that he was able to kiss him. Slowly, John manoevered them towards the bed without breaking the kiss, and Sherlock allowed himself to be lowered down on the mattress.

"You know what?" John asked once he was lying on top of his partner, trying not to be too heavy but enjoying the sensation of their bodies pressed against each other nevertheless.

Sherlock's gaze roamed over his face with a small frown: "We're flying straight back home if you say that you don't actually need the snow and a tree as long as you've got me."

John slowly broke into a grin: "Sherlock Holmes, have you been watching romantic movies?"

"Nonsense. I just deduced the sentiments which were running through your head."

"Did you, now? That's interesting, because I wasn't going to say anything like that."

"Oh." Sherlock blushed a little bit. "What were you going to say, then?"

"That I'm looking forward to waking up with you in here."

Sherlock grimaced: "That's hardly any better, John."

John didn't reply, only stared at Sherlock sternly until the detective's expression softened: "Fine. It's also a... well, lovely thing to say."

"Now that didn't hurt, did it?"

"Hm." But Sherlock's gaze was affectionate: "Have you always been so soppy?"

"Not really, no," John retorted, "it only started once I'd moved in with you." He brought up a hand and gently caressed Sherlock's cheek, his temple: "You really brought out my soft side."

They chuckled a little.

"Won't you miss your violin?" John asked once they had sobered up again , tracing the faint lines around Sherlock's mouth with the tip of his fingers.

"It's only a week," Sherlock murmured softly. Involuntarily, his thoughts strayed back to _then_. He could still feel how his fingers had itched for the instrument sometimes, how he'd have given anything for just ten minutes with it. This was different, not only because he had John with him.

Blinking, he banished the thought of the past two years: "And anyway- there's a considerable stack of boardgames in the living room cupboard, should the need arise to entertain myself."

John groaned: "Not Cluedo, I hope."

"I really don't know why you won't play Cluedo with me anymore."

"Because you're not playing it by the rules."

"Those rules were made by idiots. They don't make any sense."

"To you maybe." John smiled: "We idiots are fine with them."

Sighing theatrically, Sherlock just shook his head.

"John," he then said, and his soft, deep voice sent a pleasant shudder down John's spine. He understood what Sherlock wanted to say: _I love you, too. I'm glad we're here, together. _

"Love," he replied, very softly, finding Sherlock's lips for another kiss.

* * *

Dawn had already begun to set in when they emerged from the bedroom at about half past three.

"Is it too late to go for a walk, do you reckon?" John asked, peering outside into the blue twilight.

"Not if we don't go far and take torches," Sherlock replied.

John grinned:"Time to don my long johns, then." He went to the loo first; to his surprise, Sherlock had put on what appeared like brandnew thermal underwear when he came back and was about to slip into a pair of jeans. John had rarely seen him wearing any; to be fair, on Sherlock even jeans looked tailor-made. He didn't notice John's stare, and the doctor shook himself out of it with an effort: it were those ridiculously mundane (though in this particular case, extraordinary) moments which sometimes had him stop and marvel at the fact that he hadn't just dreamed everything which had happened in the past few months. They had always been close, but now the term _intimate_ applied. Very subtly, their boundaries had changed, and something about that made John tremendously proud.

Ten minutes later, they left the cottage, leaving a few lights on. The snow crunched underneath their feet, but the heavy boots Arvid had provided on Sherlock's request had a good grip and prevented them from slipping when they stepped on unseen stones or tree roots underneath the snow. There was barely any wind, and the air smelled clean and aromatic, a mix of trees, snow and unseen smoke. John had rekindled the fire in the stove before they had left; there had only been a few embers left and it had been considerably cooler in the room than before.

Arvid had told them that there were a few footpaths leading into the woods, all marked by red tape around the trees; they followed one of those. The path was winding, sometimes running along the lakeside, sometimes weaving its way around large rocks. At one point, they stopped to look at the vast expanse of snow-covered ice that was the lake; it creaked and broke when they experimentally put weight on it, the only noise in an otherwise quiet world. Daylight was almost gone now, the snow glinting in the light of their torches; the trees on the opposite shore black shadows against the darkening sky, which had cleared off a little. A few stars were visible, and the crescent moon illuminated a few scattered clouds around it.

Neither Sherlock nor John felt like talking; nothing they could have said would have augmented the beauty around them. As silently as they had come, they eventually made their way back.

* * *

The cottage's windows bid them a friendly welcome as they stepped out of the forest, and it was lovely to enter the warm, cosy kitchen; the cold had bitten into their cheeks rather considerably, since a bit of wind had got up.

John opened the door to the fridge and inspected its contents more closely, then did the same with the pantry. He took a small can: "What's 'Surströmming'?" he asked. Arvid had put a post-it note on it which said: "You're welcome to try this very popular Swedish fish. The taste is unique. PS: Only open the can underwater and try not to spread the brine inside the house." Frowning, he put it back on the shelf: "Sounds... fishy."

Sherlock appeared behind him: "I asked him to buy a few traditional Swedish dishes, among other things. Maybe it's his idea of a joke."

"Or maybe he's serious about it," John muttered. "Anyway, we won't starve, from the looks of it. He even bought a turkey."

He reached into the shelf again: "He seems fond of post-it notes," he added, looking at the bottle he was holding, which was filled with a clear liquid: "My own production," the note read, "very enjoyable with a good meal." He opened it and sniffed at it: "Whoa." The scent in itself was eye-watering.

"Definitely not _without_ a meal," he grinned, holding it out for Sherlock to smell it. The detective did so and grimaced: "Illicit distillation is very popular in Sweden, or so I've been told."

"Huh." John put the bottle back: "Contrary to us, they are used to it then." He refused to think of Harry right then; she was not going to spoil this.

* * *

That night, John woke up because Sherlock was trembling and breathing rapidly. They had turned away from each other at one point after falling asleep, but now John wrapped his arms around his partner and carefully held him tight: "It's just a dream, love," he murmured against Sherlock's temple, stroking his back,"nothing but a dream. You're all right."

To his immense relief, there was no struggle this time, no panicked attempts to escape; his voice and his bodily presence seemed to suffice in order to chase the demons away. Slowly, the tremors abated, and Sherlock calmed down without even waking up. It was the mildest form of a nightmare John had witnessed so far, and he was glad that it hadn't developed any further. He pressed his cheek against the soft curls and closed his eyes, listening to Sherlock and the occasional sounds the house was making. It had been snowing again when they had gone to bed, and somehow, that made it even cosier inside, nestled into a warm cocoon of thick feather quilts.

* * *

On the following morning, their footprints from the previous day had all but vanished, as it had snowed considerably during the night; the clouds apparently had come and gone again.

A feeble sun was illuminating the world, and John kept gazing out of the window while he was making coffee, nearly scalding his hand in the process. A fine, almost translucent haze was lingering above the ice-covered lake, making the air glitter in the sunlight and the trees on the opposite shore look like they were floating.

John was so lost in the view that he didn't notice how Sherlock, who had gotten the stove going, was watching him with an absent smile.

"We're some lucky bastards," the doctor eventually muttered, reluctantly turning his attention back to what he was doing, but Sherlock reached into his pocket and and held his phone out to his partner: "Go. I'll make the coffee," he said.

* * *

John deeply inhaled the cold air when he stepped outside. It was as quiet as on the previous day, and no matter which way he turned, everything looked enchanting. He took pictures of the lake, the boatshed, the trees and the cottage itself; his fingers quickly grew cold, but he didn't mind. It was lovely to be there on this beautiful morning, in those amazing surroundings, with that incredible man.

John looked back to the house and his heart beat faster as he once more appreciated the immensity of this gift. For Sherlock to leave 221B, let alone London, the reason had to be a truly important one, especially in the light of the past few years; he had only just come home, after all.

When John had lain awake that night, he had pondered this. He didn't want Sherlock to feel guilty for the rest of their lives, and he realized that this trip probably was a way to show him that Moriarty, despite Sherlock's earlier fascination with him, had never been as important to the detective as John was. Because of Moriarty, Sherlock had had to leave England; for John, he had done it again, but this time, the terms were entirely his, and the reason for it was so very different.

He wished his parents would know about this, about how his life had turned out. He wasn't sure what they'd have said to the fact that he was together with a man or that he and Harry were hopeless in their attempts to reconcile, but he knew that they'd have wanted him to be happy, not to be alone.

He looked at the snow and suddenly remembered something he hadn't thought about in quite some time, convinced that he now knew why Sherlock had chosen Sweden for their first Christmas after his return.

John was pulled out of his musings when he heard Sherlock's voice: he had opened the window and was asking if John was done. The doctor raised the phone once more and took a picture of Sherlock before he answered: "Now I am," he said, ignoring how his partner rolled his eyes at that.

* * *

"You're not allowed to delete any of the photos I took," John told Sherlock when he reached for the phone after breakfast.

"I was just going to call the Bergqvists," Sherlock replied, the picture of innocence.

"Hm." John raised an eyebrow: "I'll be watching you nevertheless, just so you know."

Sherlock gave him a sly look while he was dialling.

It turned out that it had indeed been the mother. Harald was apologetic and audibly subdued: "We should have realized it ourselves," he said, "I'm ever so sorry to put you through all this trouble, Mr Holmes."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off John. "Dr Watson and I happened to be travelling to Sweden anyway."

Amused, John shook his head; he still didn't know how exactly Sherlock had been made aware of the Bergqvist's case, but he didn't put it past him to find it _after_ he had booked the flights and rented the cottage.

"When you went through my things," he said slowly once Sherlock had finished the call, "I assume you frisked the bottom drawer as well. It's where my long johns probably were. I rarely look in there anymore, it mostly contains stuff I couldn't bring myself to throw out yet."

Sherlock watched him a little warily, waiting for him to go on.

John smiled: "Stuff like old mail. I think you found the postcard my dad sent me from Stockholm." A small pang of pain made itself known; he and his dad had been very close.

"It's from February 1988," Sherlock said quietly.

"The year he died, yes. I remember that we talked about the card, years ago, just after I caught you going through my things for the first time."

"I was looking for your gun."

"Yeah." The smallest of smiles was briefly visible in the corners of John's mouth before he continued: "I told you that it was his last business trip ever, that journey to Stockholm, and that he kept saying how he'd have liked us to have seen it. He loved it." He paused, sounding a little nasal when he continued: "Obviously, we never got round to make a family holiday out of it."

Sherlock remained silent.

John cleared his throat a few times, then looked up: "I didn't think about that card for a long time. I didn't even make the connection until this morning, when I looked round and thought how my dad would have loved this." He shook his head: "Funny that I entirely forgot about our conversation."

"It's because we were a bit drunk."

"Really? Oh yes, we were. Victory wine after solving a case, was it?"

"Hm. The Flying Frenchman. Good thing we never made a habit of victory wine. You'd never have caught me redhanded if I had been sober."

"Sure." John smiled at Sherlock, suddenly aware of how his heart was beating in his chest. After the first few weeks of Sherlock being gone, John had tried not to think about their time together too much, because the pain of once more losing the person who had been able to supply a place for him in the world had been unbearable. Even the memories of good things invariably ended in sorrow, so he had suppressed a lot, most of which was slowly coming back now.

He was grateful for the way things had turned out, and he now realized how true Sherlock's words from a few weeks earlier were, spoken on an afternoon just after John had once again been upset by his sister: _"You aren't alone in the world. You've got me." _

"Well," he said, "this only proves what I've always suspected and you're always denying."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes: "What?"

"That you're not selfish at all."

Sherlock's ears went pink: "You know how I feel about sentiment," he said evasively.

"It's not sentiment," John insisted, "To quote your own words: I'm just stating a fact. You did all this for me, making this Christmas very special not only because you're back."

"Well," Sherlock muttered, "attempting to stand in for someone's actual family naturally requires an effort."

Only seconds later, he found himself gripped by strong hands, nearly losing his balance and toppling over his chair when John kissed him, fiercely and breathlessly.

"Hopeless-" Sherlock managed to get out once he had recovered, "romantic!"

"No-" John replied between kisses,"just- a lucky- lucky- bastard."

**The End**

**Author's notes**:

I have ended the story here because the prompt was only for "a little bit of Christmas". I will probably continue it at one point.

_Surströmming_ is a Swedish delicacy indeed, but nothing for the weak-minded or those with a delicate nose. It's canned fermented herring, and the smell supposedly is so bad that it can instantly make one retch.

On Wikipedia, there's a very interesting story about it:

"In 1981, a German landlord evicted a tenant without notice after the tenant spread surströmming brine in the apartment building's staircase. When the landlord was taken to court, the court ruled that the termination was justified when the landlord's party demonstrated their case by opening a can inside the courtroom. The court concluded that it "had convinced itself that the disgusting smell of the fish brine far exceeded the degree that fellow-tenants in the building could be expected to tolerate."

The cottage I have in mind might look similar to this:

www . halmbocken . se / kroken/ (just remove the blank spaces).

www . sweranda . se/ indexengelsk. html (go to "rent a cottage" and have a look at Yngslandet).


End file.
